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The  Augustan  Books  of  Poetry 
Edited   by    Edward    Thompson 

Uniform  with  this  volume 
ROBERT  BRIDGES 
RABINDRANATH  TAGORE 
JOHN  KEATS 
PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 
G.  K.  CHESTERTON 
HILA1RE  BELLOC 

In  Preparation 

OMAR  KHAYYAM  (EDWARD  FITZGERALD) 

WILLIAM  CANTON 

A  CHRISTMAS  ANTHOLOGY 

EDMUND  BLUNDEN 

J.  C.  SQUIRE 

ANDREW  MARVELL 

THOMAS  CAMPION 

ANDREW  LANG 

SIR  EDMUND  GOSSE 


ILLING  AND  SONS,  LTD.,  CUILDFORD  AKD  KSHSR 


HILAIRE  BELLOC 


Born  1870;  educated,  The  Oratory  School,  Edgbaston,  and 
Balliol  College,  Oxford.  Served  in  the  French  Artillery; 
M.P.,  South  Salford,  1906. 

ooj 

Grateful  acknowledgments  are  due  to  Messrs.  Duck- 
worth and  Co.,  and  to  Mr.  Belloc,  for  permission  to  print 
this  selection. 

The  publishers  also  wish  to  acknowledge  the  courtesy  of 
Messrs.  Robert  M.  McBride  and  Company  in  agreeing  to 
the  publication  of  this  selection  in  the  United  States. 


Ill 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE     SOUTH    COUNTRY  -  5 

TO    THE    BALLIOL    MEN    STILL    IN    AFRICA       -  7 

WEST    SUSSEX    DRINKING    SONG  -  -  8 

TARANTELLA  -          9 

LINES    TO    A    DON     -  -       IO 

DEDICATION    ON    THE    GIFT    OF     A    BOOK    TO    A    CHILD        12 
HERETICS   ALL  -  1 3 

THE    DEATH    AND    LAST    CONFESSION    OF    WANDERING 

PETER  - 
SONNETS  - 
SONG 

THE    NIGHT 

THE    MOON'S     FUNERAL 
OUR   LORD   AND  OUR   LADY     - 
A    BIVOUAC 
IN    A    BOAT 

BALLADE  TO  OUR  LADY  OF  CZESTOCHOWA 
HA'NACKER  MILL 
EPIGRAMS 

STANZAS  WRITTEN  ON  BATTERSEA  BRIDGE  DURING  A 
SOUTH-WESTERLY  GALE  - 


IV 


The  South   Country 

WHEN  I  am  living  in  the  Midlands 
That  are  sodden  and  unkind, 
I  light  my  lamp  at  evening : 
My  work  is  left  behind; 
And  the  great  hills  of  the  South  Country 
Come  back  into  my  mind. 

The  great  hills  of  the  South  Country 

They  stand  along  the  sea; 
And  it's  there  walking  in  the  high  woods 

That  I  could  wish  to  be, 
And  the  men  that  were  boys  when  I  was  a  boy 

Walking  along  with  me. 

The  men  that  live  in  North  England 

I  saw  them  for  a  day : 
Their  hearts  are  set  upon  the  waste  fells, 

Their  skies  are  fast  and  grey; 
From  their  castle-walls  a  man  may  see 

The  mountains  far  away. 

The  men  that  live  in  West  England 

They  see  the  Severn  strong, 
A-rolling  on  rough  water  brown 

Light  aspen  leaves  along. 
They  have  the  secret  of  the  Rocks, 

And  the  oldest  kind  of  song. 

But  the  men  that  live  in  the  South  Country 

Are  the  kindest  and  most  wise, 
They  get  their  laughter  from  the  loud  surf, 

And  the  faith  in  their  happy  eyes 
Comes  surely  from  our  Sister  the  Spring 

When  over  the  sea  she  flies; 
The  violets  suddenly  bloom  at  her  feet, 

She  blesses  us  with  surprise. 

5 


I  never  get  between  the  pines 

But  I  smell  the  Sussex  air; 
Nor  I  never  come  on  a  belt  of  sand 

But  my  home  is  there, 
And  along  the  sky  the  line  of  the  Downs 

So  noble  and  so  bare. 

A  lost  thing  could  I  never  find, 

Nor  a  broken  thing  mend : 
And  I  fear  I  shall  be  all  alone 

When  I  get  towards  the  end. 
Who  will  be  there  to  comfort  me 

Or  who  will  be  my  friend? 

I  will  gather  and  carefully  make  my  friends 
Of  the  men  of  the  Sussex  Weald, 

They  watch  the  stars  from  silent  folds, 
They  stiffly  plough  the  field. 

By  them  and  the  God  of  the  South  Country 
My  poor  soul  shall  be  healed. 

If  I  ever  become  a  rich  man, 

Or  if  ever  I  grow  to  be  old, 
I  will  build  a  house  with  deep  thatch 

To  shelter  me  from  the  cold, 
And  there  shall  the  Sussex  songs  be  sung 

And  the  story  of  Sussex  told. 

I  will  hold  my  house  in  the  high  wood 

Within  a  walk  of  the  sea, 
And  the  men  that  were  boys  when  I  was  a  boy 

Shall  sit  and  drink  with  me. 


To  the  Balliol  Men  Still  in  Africa 
(1900) 

YEARS  ago  when  I  was  at  Balliol, 
Balliol  men — and  I  was  one — 
Swam  together  in  winter  rivers, 

Wrestled  together  under  the  sun. 
And  still  in  the  heart  of  us,  Balliol,  Balliol, 

Loved  already,  but  hardly  known, 

Welded  us  each  of  us  into  the  others : 

Called  a  levy  and  chose  her  own. 

Here  is  a  House  that  armours  a  man 

With  the  eyes  of  a  boy  and  the  heart  of  a  ranger, 
And  a  laughing  way  in  the  teeth  of  the  world 

And  a  holy  hunger  and  thirst  for  danger: 
Balliol  made  me,  Balliol  fed  me, 

Whatever  I  had  she  gave  me  again : 
And  the  best  of  Balliol  loved  and  led  me. 

God  be  with  you,  Balliol  men. 

I  have  said  it  before,  and  I  say  it  again, 

There  was  treason  done,  and  a  false  word  spoken, 
And  England  under  the  dregs  of  men, 

And  bribes  about,  and  a  treaty  broken : 
But  angry,  lonely,  hating  it  still, 

I  wished  to  be  there  in  spite  of  the  wrong. 
My  heart  was  heavy  for  Cumnor  Hill 

And  the  hammer  of  galloping  all  day  long. 

Galloping  outward  into  the  weather, 

Hands  a-ready  and  battle  in  all : 
Words  together  and  wine  together 

And  song  together  in  Balliol  Hall. 

7 


Rare  and  single!     Noble  and  few!   .  .  . 

Oh!  they  have  wasted  you  over  the  sea! 
The  only  brothers  ever  I  knew, 

The  men  that  laughed  and  quarrelled  with  me. 

*  *  »  *  * 

Balliol  made  me,  Balliol  fed  me, 
Whatever  I  had  she  gave  me  again; 

And  the  best  of  Balliol  loved  and  led  me. 
God  be  with  you,  Balliol  men. 


West  Sussex  Drinking  Song 

THEY  sell  good  Beer  at  Haslemere 
And  under  Guildford  Hill. 
At  Little  Cowfold  as  Pve  been  told 

A  beggar  may  drink  his  fill : 
There  is  a  good  brew  in  Amberley  too, 

And  by  the  bridge  also; 

But  the  swipes  they  take  in  at  Washington  Inn 
Is  the  very  best  Beer  I  know. 

Chorus. 

With  my  here  it  goes,  there  it  goes, 

All  the  fun's  before  us: 

The  Tipple's  Aboard  and  the  night  is  young, 
The  door's  ajar  and  the  Barrel  is  sprung, 
I  am  singing  the  best  song  ever  was  sung, 

And  it  has  a  rousing  chorus. 

If  I  were  what  I  never  can  be, 

The  master  or  the  squire: 
If  you  gave  me  the  hundred  from  here  to  the  sea, 

Which  is  more  than  I  desire: 
8 


Then  all  my  crops  should  be  barley  and  hops, 

And  did  my  harvest  fail 
Pd  sell  every  rood  of  mine  acres  I  would 

For  a  bellyful  of  good  Ale. 

Chorus. 

With  my  here  it  goes,  there  it  goes, 

All  the  fun's  before  us: 
The  Tipple's  Aboard  and  the  night  is  young, 
The  door's  ajar  and  the  Barrel  is  sprung, 
I  am  singing  the  best  song  ever  was  sung, 

And  it  has  a  rousing  chorus. 


Tarantella 

DO  you  remember  an  Inn, 
Miranda? 

Do  you  remember  an  Inn  ? 
And  the  tedding  and  the  spreading 
Of  the  straw  for  a  bedding, 
And  the  fleas  that  tease  in  the  High  Pyrenees, 
And  the  wine  that  tasted  of  the  tar? 
And  the  cheers  and  the  jeers  of  the  young  muleteers 
(Under  the  vine  of  the  dark  verandah) . 
Do  you  remember  an  Inn,  Miranda, 
Do  you  remember  an  Inn? 

And  the  cheers  and  the  jeers  of  the  young  muleteers 
Who  hadn't  got  a  penny, 
And  who  weren't  paying  any, 
And  the  hammer  at  the  doors  and  the  Din  ? 
And  the  Hip!  Hop!  Hap! 
Of  the  clap 
Of  the  hands  to  the  twirl  and  the  swirl 


Of  the  girl  gone  chancing, 

Glancing, 

Dancing, 

Backing  and  advancing, 

Snapping  of  a  clapper  to  the  spin 

Out  and  in — 

And  the  Ting,  Tong,  Tang  of  the  Guitar! 

Do  you  remember  an  Inn, 

Miranda  ? 

Do  you  remember  an  Inn.? 

Never  more, 

Miranda; 

Never  more. 

Only  the  high  peaks  hoar: 

And  Aragon  a  torrent  at  the  door. 

No  sound 

In  the  walls  of  the  Halls  where  falls 

The  tread 

Of  the  feet  of  the  dead  to  the  ground. 

No  sound: 

But  the  boom 

Of  the  far  Waterfall  like  Doom. 


Lines  to  a  Don 

REMOTE  and  ineffectual  Don 
That  dared  attack  my  Chesterton, 
With  that  poor  weapon,  half-impelled, 
Unlearnt,  unsteady,  hardly  held, 
Unworthy  for  a  tilt  with  men — 
Your  quavering  and  corroded  pen; 
Don  poor  at  Bed  and  worse  at  Table, 
Don  pinched,  Don  starved,  Don  miserable; 

10 


Don  stuttering,  Don  with  roving  eyes, 
Don  nervous,  Don  of  crudities; 
Don  clerical,  Don  ordinary, 
Don  self-absorbed  and  solitary; 
Don  here-and- there,  Don  epileptic; 
Don  puffed  and  empty,  Don  dyspeptic; 
Don  middle-class,  Don  sycophantic, 
Don  dull,  Don  brutish,  Don  pedantic; 
Don  hypocritical,  Don  bad, 
Don  furtive,  Don  three-quarters  mad; 
Don  (since  a  man  must  make  an  end), 
Don  that  shall  never  be  my  friend. 


Don  different  from  those  regal  Dons! 
With  hearts  of  gold  and  lungs  of  bronze, 
Who  shout  and  bang  and  roar  and  bawl 
The  Absolute  across  the  hall, 
Or  sail  in  amply  bellowing  gown 
Enormous  through  the  Sacred  Town, 
Bearing  from  College  to  their  homes 
Deep  cargoes  of  gigantic  tomes; 
Dons  admirable!      Dons  of  Might! 
Uprising  on  my  inward  sight 
Compact  of  ancient  tales,  and  port 
And  sleep — and  learning  of  a  sort. 
Dons  English,  worthy  of  the  land; 
Dons  rooted;  Dons  that  understand. 
Good  Dons  perpetual  that  remain 
A  landmark,  walling  in  the  plain — 
The  horizon  of  my  memories — 
Like  large  and  comfortable  trees. 


Don  very  much  apart  from  these, 
Thou  scapegoat  Don,  thou  Don  devoted, 
Don  to  thine  own  damnation  quoted, 
ii 


Perplexed  to  find  thy  trivial  name 

Reared  in  my  verse  to  lasting  shame. 

Don  dreadful,  rasping  Don  and  wearing, 

Repulsive  Don — Don  past  all  bearing. 

Don  of  the  cold  and  doubtful  breath, 

Don  despicable,  Don  of  death; 

Don  nasty,  skimpy,  silent,  level; 

Don  evil;  Don  that  serves  the  devil. 

Don  ugly — that  makes  fifty  lines. 

There  is  a  Canon  which  confines 

A  Rhymed  Octosyllabic  Curse 

If  written  in  Iambic  Verse 

To  fifty  lines.     I  never  cut; 

I  far  prefer  to  end  it — but 

Believe  me  I  shall  soon  return. 

My  fires  are  banked,  but  still  they  burn 

To  write  some  more  about  the  Don 

That  dared  attack  my  Chesterton. 


Dedication  on  the  Gift  of  a  Book 
to  a  Child 


do  not  throw  this  book  about! 
Refrain  from  the  unholy  pleasure 
Of  cutting  all  the  pictures  out! 

Preserve  it  as  your  chiefest  treasure. 

Child,  have  you  never  heard  it  said 
That  you  are  heir  to  all  the  ages? 

Why,  then,  your  hands  were  never  made 
To  tear  these  beautiful  thick  pages! 

12 


Your  little  hands  were  made  to  take 

The  better  things  and  leave  the  worse  ones 

They  also  may  be  used  to  shake 

The  Massive  Paws  of  Elder  Persons. 

And  when  your  prayers  complete  the  day, 

Darling,  your  little  tiny  hands 
Were  also  made,  I  think,  to  pray 

For  men  that  lose  their  fairylands. 


Heretics  All 

HERETICS  all,  whoever  you  be, 
In  Tarbes  or  Nimes,  or  over  the  sea, 
You  never  shall  have  good  words  from  me. 
Caritas  non  conturbat  me. 

But  Catholic  men  that  live  upon  wine 
Are  deep  in  the  water,  and  frank,  and  fine; 
Wherever  I  travel  I  find  it  so, 
Beyedicamus  Domino. 

On  childing  women  that  are  forlorn, 
And  men  that  sweat  in  nothing  but  scorn 
That  is  on  all  that  ever  were  born, 
Miserere  Domine. 

To  my  poor  self  on  my  deathbed, 
And  all  my  dear  companions  dead, 
Because  of  the  love  that  I  bore  them, 
Dona  Els  Requiem. 


The  Death  and  Last  Confession  of 
Wandering  Peter 

WHEN  Peter  Wanderwide  was  young 
He  wandered  everywhere  he  would  : 
And  all  that  he  approved  was  sung, 
And  most  of  what  he  saw  was  good. 

When  Peter  Wanderwide  was  thrown 
By  Death  himself  beyond  Auxerre, 

He  chanted  in  heroic  tone 

To  priests  and  people  gathered  there : 

"  If  all  that  I  have  loved  and  seen 
Be  with  me  on  the  Judgment  Day, 

I  shall  be  saved  the  crowd  between 
From  Satan  and  his  foul  array. 

"  Almighty  God  will  surely  cry, 

« St.  Michael !     Who  is  this  that  stands 

With  Ireland  in  his  dubious  eye, 
And  Perigord  between  his  hands, 

"  *  And  on  his  arm  the  stirrup-thongs, 

And  in  his  gait  the  narrow  seas, 
And  in  his  mouth  Burgundian  songs, 

But  in  his  heart  the  Pyrenees?' 

"  St.  Michael  then  will  answer  right 
(And  not  without  angelic  shame), 
*  I  seem  to  know  his  face  by  sight : 
I  cannot  recollect  his  name  .  .  .  ?> 

"  St.  Peter  will  befriend  me  then, 

Because  my  name  is  Peter  too : 
'  I  know  him  for  the  best  of  men 
That  ever  walloped  barley  brew. 


"  '  And  though  I  did  not  know  him  well, 

And  though  his  soul  were  clogged  with  sin, 

7  hold  the  keys  of  Heaven  and  Hell. 
Be  welcome,  noble  Peterkin.' 

"  Then  shall  I  spread  my  native  wings 
And  tread  secure  the  heavenly  floor, 

And  tell  the  Blessed  doubtful  things 
Of  Val  d'Aran  and  Perigord." 


This  was  the  last  and  solemn  jest 
Of  weary  Peter  Wanderwide. 

He  spoke  it  with  a  failing  zest, 
And  having  spoken  it,  he  died. 


Sonnets 

XVIII 

WHEN  you  to  Acheron's  ugly  water  come 
Where  darkness  is  and  formless  mourners  brood 
And  down  the  shelves  of  that  distasteful  flood 
Survey  the  human  rank  in  order  dumb. 
When  the  pale  dead  go  forward,  tortured  more 
By  nothingness  and  longing  than  by  fire, 
Which  bear  their  hands  in  suppliance  with  desire, 
With  stretched  desire  for  the  ulterior  shore. 

Then  go  before  them  like  a  royal  ghost 
And  tread  like  Egypt  or  like  Carthage  crowned; 
Because  in  your  Mortality  the  most 
Of  all  we  may  inherit  has  been  found — 

Children  for  memory :  the  Faith  for  pride. 

Good  land  to  leave :  and  young  Love  satisfied. 

15 


xix 

We  will  not  whisper,  we  have  found  the  place 
Of  silence  and  the  endless  halls  of  sleep; 
And  that  which  breathes  alone  throughout  the  deep 
The  end  and  the  beginning :  and  the  face 
Between  the  level  brows  of  whose  blind  eyes 
Lie  plenary  contentment,  full  surcease 
Of  violence,  and  the  passionless  long  peace 
Wherein  we  lose  our  human  lullabies. 


Look  up  and  tell  the  immeasurable  height 
Between  the  vault  of  the  world  and  your  dear  head; 
That's  death,  my  little  sister,  and  the  night 
Which  was  our  Mother  beckons  us  to  bed, 

Where  large  oblivion  in  her  house  is  laid 

For  us  tired  children,  now  our  games  are  played. 


XXI 

Almighty  God,  whose  justice  like  a  sun 
Shall  coruscate  along  the  floors  of  Heaven, 
Raising  what's  low,  perfecting  what's  undone, 
Breaking  the  proud  and  making  odd  things  even. 
The  poor  of  Jesus  Christ  along  the  street 
In  your  rain  sodden,  in  your  snows  unshod, 
They  have  nor  hearth,  nor  sword,  nor  human  meat, 
Nor  even  the  bread  of  men :  Almighty  God. 

The  poor  of  Jesus  Christ  whom  no  man  hears 
Have  waited  on  your  vengeance  much  too  long. 
Wipe  out  not  tears  but  blood :  our  eyes  bleed  tears. 
Come  smite  our  damned  sophistries  so  strong 
That  thy  rude  hammer  battering  this  rude  wrong 
Ring  down  the  abyss  of  twice  ten  thousand  years. 
16 


XXII 

Mother  of  all  my  cities,  once  there  lay 

About  your  weedy  wharves  an  orient  shower 
Of  spice  and  languorous  silk  and  all  the  dower 

That  Ocean  gave  you  on  his  bridal  day. 

And  now  the  youth  and  age  have  passed  away 
And  all  the  sail  superb  and  all  the  power; 
Your  time's  a  time  of  memory  like  that  hour 

Just  after  sunset,  wonderful  and  grey. 

Too  tired  to  rise  and  much  too  sad  to  weep, 
With  strong  arm  nerveless  on  a  nerveless  knee, 

Still  to  your  slumbering  ears  the  spousal  deep 
Murmurs  his  thoughts  of  eld  eternally; 

But  your  soul  wakes  not  from  its  holy  sleep 

Dreaming  of  dead  delights  along  a  tideless  sea. 


XXIII 

November  is  that  historied  Emperor 

Conquered  in  age  but  foot  to  foot  with  fate 
Who  from  his  refuge  high  has  heard  the  roar 

Of  squadrons  in  pursuit,  and  now,  too  late, 
Stirrups  the  storm  and  calls  the  winds  to  war, 

And  arms  the  garrison  of  his  last  heirloom, 
And  shakes  the  sky  to  its  extremest  shore 

With  battle  against  irrevocable  doom. 

Till,  driven  and  hurled  from  his  strong  citadels, 
He  flies  in  hurrying  cloud  and  spurs  him  on, 

Empty  of  lingerings,  empty  of  farewells 
And  final  benedictions  and  is  gone. 

But  in  my  garden  all  the  trees  have  shed 

Their  legacies  of  the  light  and  all  the  flowers  are  dead. 


XXIV 

Hoar  Time  about  the  House  betakes  him  slow 
Seeking  an  entry  for  his  weariness. 
And  in  that  dreadful  company  distress 
And  the  sad  night  with  silent  footsteps  go. 
On  my  poor  fire  the  brands  are  scarce  aglow 
And  in  the  woods  without  what  memories  press 
Where,  waning  in  the  trees  from  less  to  less 
Mysterious  hangs  the  horned  moon  and  low. 

For  now  December,  full  of  aged  care, 
Comes  in  upon  the  year  and  weakly  grieves; 
Mumbling  his  lost  desires  and  his  despair 
And  with  mad  trembling  hand  still  interweaves 
The  dank  sear  flower-stalks  tangled  in  his  hair, 
While  round  about  him  whirl  the  rotten  leaves. 


xxv 

It  freezes :  all  across  a  soundless  sky 

The  birds  go  home.     The  governing  dark's  begun. 

The  steadfast  dark  that  waits  not  for  a  sun; 

The  ultimate  dark  wherein  the  race  shall  die. 

Death  with  his  evil  finger  to  his  lip 

Leers  in  at  human  windows,  turning  spy 

To  learn  the  country  where  his  rules  shall  lie 

When  he  assumes  perpetual  generalship. 

The  undefeated  enemy,  the  chill 
That  shall  benumb  the  voiceful  earth  at  last, 
Is  master  of  our  moment,  and  has  bound 
The  viewless  wind  itself.     There  is  no  sound. 
It  freezes.     Every  friendly  stream  is  fast. 
It  freezes,  and  the  graven  twigs  are  still. 
18 


XXX 


The  world's  a  stage — and  I'm  the  Super  man, 
And  no  one  seems  responsible  for  salary. 
I  roar  my  part  as  loudly  as  I  can 
And  all  I  mouth  I  mouth  it  to  the  gallery. 
I  haven't  got  another  rhyme  in  "  alery," 
It  would  have  made  a  better  job,  no  doubt, 
If  I  had  left  attempt  at  Rhyming  out, 
Like  Alfred  Tennyson  adapting  Malory. 

The  world's  a  stage,  the  company  of  which 
Has  very  little  talent  and  less  reading  : 
But  many  a  waddling  heathen  painted  bitch 
And  many  a  standing  cad  of  gutter  breeding. 

We  sweat  to  learn  our  book  :  for  all  our  pains 
We  pass.     The  Chucker-out  alone  remains. 


Song 

Inviting  the  Influence  of  a  Young  Lady 
Upon  the  Opening  Tear 


YOU  wear  the  morning  like  your  dress 
And  are  with  mastery  crowned; 
Whenas  you  walk  your  loveliness 
Goes  shining  all  around. 
Upon  your  secret,  smiling  way 
Such  new  contents  were  found, 
The  Dancing  Loves  made  holiday 
On  that  delightful  ground. 


II 


Then  summon  April  forth,  and  send 

Commandment  through  the  flowers; 

About  our  woods  your  grace  extend 

A  queen  of  careless  hours. 

For  oh,  not  Vera  veiled  in  rain, 

Nor  Dian's  sacred  Ring, 

With  all  her  royal  nymphs  in  train 

Could  so  lead  on  the  Spring. 


The  Night 

MOST  holy  Night,  that  still  dost  keep 
The  keys  of  all  the  doors  of  sleep, 
To  me  when  my  tired  eyelids  close 
Give  thou  repose. 

And  let  the  far  lament  of  them 
That  chaunt  the  dead  day's  requiem 
Make  in  my  ears,  who  wakeful  lie, 
Soft  lullaby. 

Let  them  that  guard  the  horned  moon 
By  my  bedside  their  memories  croon. 
So  shall  I  have  new  dreams  and  blest 
In  my  brief  rest. 

Fold  your  great  wings  about  my  face, 
Hide  dawning  from  my  resting-place, 
And  cheat  me  with  your  false  delight, 
Most  Holy  Night. 

20 


The  Moons  Fuiieral 


THE  Moon  is  dead.     I  saw  her  die. 
She  in  a  drifting  cloud  was  drest, 
She  lay  along  the  uncertain  west, 
A  dream  to  see. 

And  very  low  she  spake  to  me : 
"  I  go  where  none  may  understand, 
I  fade  into  the  nameless  land, 
And  there  must  lie  perpetually." 
And  therefore  I, 
And  therefore  loudly,  loudly  I 
And  high 

And  very  piteously  make  cry : 
"The  Moon  is  dead.     I  saw  her  die." 


And  will  she  never  rise  again? 

The  Holy  Moon?     Oh,  never  more! 

Perhaps  along  the  inhuman  shore 

Where  pale  ghosts  are 

Beyond  the  low  lethean  fen 

She  and  some  wide  infernal  star  .  . 

To  us  who  loved  her  never  more, 

The  Moon  will  never  rise  again. 

Oh !  never  more  in  nightly  sky 

Her  eye  so  high  shall  peep  and  pry 

To  see  the  great  world  rolling  by. 

For  why? 

The  Moon  is  dead.     I  saw  her  die- 


21 


Our  Lord  and  Our  Lady 

THEY  warned  Our  Lady  for  the  Child 
That  was  Our  blessed  Lord, 
And  She  took  Him  into  the  desert  wild, 
Over  the  camel's  ford. 

And  a  long  song  She  sang  to  Him 

And  a  short  story  told : 
And  She  wrapped  Him  in  a  woollen  cloak 

To  keep  Him  from  the  cold. 

But  when  Our  Lord  was  grown  a  man 
The  Rich  they  dragged  Him  down, 

And  they  crucified  Him  in  Golgotha, 
Out  and  beyond  the  Town. 

They  crucified  Him  on  Calvary, 

Upon  an  April  day; 
And  because  He  had  been  her  little  Son 

She  followed  Him  all  the  way. 

Our  Lady  stood  beside  the  Cross, 

A  little  space  apart, 
And  when  She  heard  Our  Lord  cry  out 

A  sword  went  through  Her  Heart. 

They  hid  Our  Lord  in  a  marble  tomb, 

Dead,  in  a  winding-sheet; 
But  Our  Lady  stands  above  the  world 

With  the  white  moon  at  Her  feet. 

A  Bivouac 

YOU  came  without  a  human  sound, 
You  came  and  brought  my  soul  to  me: 
I  only  woke,  and  all  around 
They  slumbered  on  the  firelit  ground, 
Beside  the  guns  in  Burgundy. 

22 


I  felt  the  gesture  of  your  hands, 

You  signed  my  forehead  with  the  Cross; 
The  gesture  of  your  holy  hands 
Was  bounteous — like  the  misty  lands 

Along  the  Hills  in  Calvados. 

But  when  I  slept  I  saw  your  eyes, 
Hungry  as  death,  and  very  far. 
I  saw  demand  in  your  dim  eyes 
Mysterious  as  the  moons  that  rise 
At  midnight,  in  the  Pines  of  Var. 


In  a  Boat 

LADY!  Lady! 
Upon  Heaven-height, 
Above  the  harsh  morning 
In  the  mere  light. 

Above  the  spindrift 
And  above  the  snow, 
Where  no  seas  tumble, 
And  no  winds  blow. 

The  twisting  tides, 
And  the  perilous  sands 
Upon  all  sides 
Are  in  your  holy  hands. 

The  wind  harries 
And  the  cold  kills; 
But  I  see  your  chapel 
Over  far  hills. 

23 


My  body  is  frozen, 

My  soul  is  afraid : 

Stretch  out  your  hands  to  me, 

Mother  and  maid. 

Mother  of  Christ, 

And  Mother  of  me, 

Save  me  alive 

From  the  howl  of  the  sea. 

If  you  will  Mother  me 
Till  I  grow  old, 
I  will  hang  in  your  chapel 
A  ship  of  pure  gold. 


Ballade  to   Our  Lady  of  Czestochowa 


LADY  and  Queen  and  Mystery  manifold 
And  very  Regent  of  the  untroubled  sky, 
Whom  in  a  dream  St  Hilda  did  behold 
And  heard  a  woodland  music  passing  by: 
You  shall  receive  me  when  the  clouds  are  high 
With  evening  and  the  sheep  attain  the  fold. 
This  is  the  faith  that  I  have  held  and  hold, 
And  this  is  that  in  which  I  mean  to  die. 

n 

Steep  are  the  seas  and  savaging  and  cold 

In  broken  waters  terrible  to  try; 
And  vast  against  the  winter  night  the  wold, 

And  harbourless  for  any  sail  to  lie. 

But  you  shall  lead  me  to  the  lights,  and  I 
Shall  hymn  you  in  a  harbour  story  told. 
This  is  the  faith  that  I  have  held  and  hold, 

And  this  is  that  in  which  I  mean  to  die. 

24 


Ill 

Help  of  the  half-defeated,  House  of  gold, 

Shrine  of  the  Sword,  and  Tower  or  Ivory; 
Splendour  apart,  supreme  and  aureoled, 

The  Battler's  vision  and  the  World's  reply. 

You  shall  restore  me,  O  my  last  Ally, 
To  vengeance  and  the  glories  of  the  bold. 
This  is  the  faith  that  I  have  held  and  hold, 

And  this  is  that  in  which  I  mean  to  die. 

Envoi 

Prince  of  the  degradations,  bought  and  sold, 
These  verses,  written  in  your  crumbling  sty, 

Proclaim  the  faith  that  I  have  held  and  hold 
And  publish  that  in  which  I  mean  to  die. 


Hanacker  Mill 

SALLY  is  gone  that  was  so  kindly, 
Sally  is  gone  from  Ha'nacker  Hill. 
And  the  Briar  grows  ever  since  then  so  blindly 
And  ever  since  then  the  clapper  is  still, 
And  the  sweeps  have  fallen  from  Ha'nacker  Mill. 

Ha'nacker  Hill  is  in  Desolation : 

Ruin  a-top  and  a  field  unploughed. 
And  Spirits  that  call  on  a  fallen  nation, 

Spirits  that  loved  her  calling  aloud : 

Spirits  abroad  in  a  windy  cloud. 

Spirits  that  call  and  no  one  answers; 

Ha'nacker's  down  and  England's  done. 
Wind  and  Thistle  for  pipe  and  dancers 

And  never  a  ploughman  under  the  Sun. 

Never  a  ploughman.     Never  a  one* 

25 


w 


Epigrams 

On  His  Books 

HEN  I  am  dead,  I  hope  it  may  be  said : 

"  His  sins  were  scarlet,  but  his  books  were  read." 


'A  Trinity 

Of  three  in  One  and  One  in  three 
My  narrow  mind  would  doubting  be 
Till  Beauty,  Grace  and  Kindness  met 
And  all  at  once  were  Juliet. 


On  Hygiene 

Of  old  when  folk  lay  sick  and  sorely  tried 
The  doctors  gave  them  physic,  and  they  died. 
But  here's  a  happier  age :  for  now  we  know 
Both  how  to  make  men  sick  and  keep  them  so. 


On  Lady  Poltagrue,  a  Public  Peril 

The  Devil,  having  nothing  else  to  do, 
Went  off  to  tempt  My  Lady  Poltagrue. 
My  Lady,  tempted  by  a  private  whim, 
To  his  extreme  annoyance,  tempted  him. 

The   Telephone 

To-night  in  million-voiced  London  I 
Was  lonely  as  the  million-pointed  sky 
Until  your  single  voice.     Ah!     So  the  Sun 
Peoples  all  heaven,  although  he  be  but  one. 
26 


The  Statue 

When  we  are  dead,  some  Hunting-boy  will  pass 
And  find  a  stone  half-hidden  in  tall  grass 
And  grey  with  age :  but  having  seen  that  stone 
(Which  was  your  image),  ride  more  slowly  on. 


Epitaph  on  the  Politician  Himself 

Here  richly,  with  ridiculous  display, 

The  Politician's  corpse  was  laid  away. 

While  all  of  his  acquaintance  sneered  and  slanged 

I  wept :  for  I  had  longed  to  see  him  hanged. 


On  a  Rose  for  Her  Bosom 

Go,  lovely  rose,  and  tell  the  lovelier  fair 

That  he  which  loved  her  most  was  never  there. 


On  the  Little  God 

Of  all  the  gods  that  gave  me  all  their  glories 
To-day  there  deigns  to  walk  with  me  but  one. 
I  lead  him  by  the  hand  and  tell  him  stories. 
It  is  the  Queen  of  Cyprus'  little  son. 


On  a  Prophet 

Of  old  'twas  Samuel  sought  the  Lord :  to-day 
The  Lord  runs  after  Samuel — so  they  say. 


On  a  Dead  Hostess 

Of  this  bad  world  the  loveliest  and  the  best 
Has  smiled  and  said  "  Good  Night,"  and  gone  to  rest. 
27 


On  a  Great  Election 

The  accursed  power  which  stands  on  Privilege 

(And  goes  with  Women,  and  Champagne  and  Bridge) 

Broke — and  Democracy  resumed  her  reign : 

(Which  goes  with  Bridge,  and  Women  and  Champagne) 

On  a  Sleeping  Friend 

Lady,  when  your  lovely  head 
Droops  to  sink  among  the  Dead, 
And  the  quiet  places  keep 
You  that  so  divinely  sleep; 
Then  the  dead  shall  blessed  be 
With  a  new  solemnity, 
For  such  Beauty,  so  descending, 
Pledges  them  that  Death  is  ending. 
Sleep  your  fill — but  when  you  wake 
Dawn  shall  over  Lethe  break. 


The  False  Heart 

I  said  to  Heart,  " How  goes  it?"     Heart  replied 
"  Right  as  a  Ribstone  Pippin ! "     But  it  lied. 

Partly  from  ihs  Greek 

She  would  be  as  the  stars  in  your  sight 
That  turn  in  the  endless  hollow; 
That  tremble,  and  always  follow 
The  quiet  wheels  of  the  Night. 


28 


Stanzas   Written  on   Battersea  Bridge 
during  a  South-Westerly   Gale 

THE  woods  and  downs  have  caught  the  mid-December, 
The  noisy  woods  and  high  sea-downs  of  home; 
The  wind  has  found  me  and  I  do  remember 
The  strong  scent  of  the  foam. 

Woods,  darlings  of  my  wandering  feet,  another 
Possesses  you,  another  treads  the  Down; 

The  South  West  Wind  that  was  my  elder  brother 
Has  come  to  me  in  town. 

The  wind  is  shouting  from  the  hills  of  morning, 

I  do  remember  and  I  will  not  stay. 
I'll  take  the  Hampton  road  without  a  warning 

And  get  me  clean  away. 

The  Channel  is  up,  the  little  seas  are  leaping, 

The  tide  is  making  over  Arun  Bar; 
And  there's  my  boat,  where  all  the  rest  are  sleeping 

And  my  companions  are. 

I'll  board  her,  and  apparel  her,  and  I'll  mount  her, 
My  boat,  that  was  the  strongest  friend  to  me — 

That  brought  my  boyhood  to  its  first  encounter 
And  taught  me  the  wide  sea. 

Now  shall  I  drive  her,  roaring  hard  a'  weather, 
Right  for  the  salt  and  leave  them  all  behind; 

We'll  quite  forget  the  treacherous  streets  together 
And  find — or  shall  we  find? 

There  is  no  Pilotry  my  soul  relies  on 

Whereby  to  catch  beneath  my  bended  hand, 

Faint  and  beloved  along  the  extreme  horizon 
That  unforgotten  land. 

29 


We  shall  not  round  the  granite  piers  and  paven 
To  lie  to  wharves  we  know  with  canvas  furled. 

My  little  Boat,  we  shall  not  make  the  haven — 
It  is  not  of  the  world. 

Somewhere  of  English  forelands  grandly  guarded 
It  stands,  but  not  for  exiles,  marked  and  clean; 

Oh!  not  for  us.     A  mist  has  risen  and  marred  it- 
My  youth  lies  in  between. 

So  in  this  snare  that  holds  me  and  appals  me, 
Where  honour  hardly  lives  nor  loves  remain, 

The  Sea  compels  me  and  my  County  calls  me, 
But  stronger  things  restrain. 


England,  to  me  that  never  have  malingered, 
Nor  spoken  falsely,  nor  your  flattery  used, 

Nor  even  in  my  rightful  garden  lingered :  — 
What  have  you  not  refused? 


3° 


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